Safe as a House
by anyadoll
Summary: Where do we feel the safest...
1. Safe As Houses

Safe as a House

_Are you somewhere safe as houses?  
Close your eyes count one, two, three.  
Run and hide now, are you ready?  
Ollie, Ollie in-come-free._

For some people, there is no where safer than their own house. All of the comforts and one's worldly possessions in a neat, clean (or messy, depending on the type of person one is) place with four sturdy walls, a floor, and if you're lucky, surrounded by neighbors that don't blast music at 4am, and don't share their place with their crazy drunk of a mother or flirtatious little sister.

Mary Shannon was not one of these people. She knew too much about the real world to know that a house was not as safe as everyone thought. It allowed unwelcome guests, pests, more often than not. But in her line of work, it allowed darkness to enter, like the plague. They hid that darkness among the light. Bad people mixed in with good, hardworking ones on a day to day basis. Years passed, and still she could find herself worrying, whenever a lull came along, that today would be the day they'd hear about one of those innocent light people murdered by one their hidden pests.

Yes, every choice had its consequence. Sacrifice one, save a million. It was the pests like Horst—well, "Lola"—that tried to slip through like a serpent—pretending to be all innocent and naïve, until they tried to get you to take a bite of that forbidden fruit. Eps, similarly, had done the same in a roundabout way. He pushed her when she was at her most vulnerable point, and found a way to take advantage of that. Regret inevitably had followed that action all those months ago. But now, she was mad at Raph, mad at Brandi for liking Raph, mad at Jinx for crashing into her house with her attempted good intentions, knowing that she'd never end up helping anyway. Mary spent so much energy into avoiding her house, that she had chalked the Eps encounter up to her "irrational choices" when they'd met.

And she was still angry, irritated, decaffeinated, and half-starved since her green juice diet idea she'd decided too take up with again. Maybe, possibly, that's how she ended up _here_.

Here being Marshall's house. She was still fuzzy on the how and when, but the why was easy. Three sleepless nights in the office, up and awake constantly working on a particularly large stack of paperwork while figuring out a location for two sets of witnesses, sipping the vile juice without any real sustenance, had made her go just a little bit batty—or out of character, as Marshall had stated when she'd tried this fad the first time. The morning of the fourth sleepless day, they'd been going through the WITSEC handbook of rules to a future family of three innocent bystanders, she'd managed to snap at Marshall to even his tolerance limits—rarely was he the first one to designate the silent treatment; he was the peacekeeper and referee between them both, the one that built bridges in her honor, whether she deserved them was the true question. She'd momentarily gotten up to grab a few sodas for the family (and Marshall) from the vending machine around the corner of the hall when the first wave of vertigo hit her like an acid trip gone awry—how she knew that she refused to acknowledge—while her head pounded in agony. It was bad enough she hadn't slept, couldn't speak without jumbling simple sentences, and her eyes felt glued together at the lashes. But she stuck it out.

Two cans of Dr. Pepper had fallen from the vending machine, and she'd just dropped two more quarters into the slot, trying to recall which soda Marshall would want more, when the edges of her vision seemed to fade away, and everything felt light and airy. She wasn't standing anymore. She was falling.

And it felt good.

Now she smelled pancakes. It was a weird thing to smell, she thought originally, because no one cooked at her house. Ever. Jinx drank. Brandi…well Brandi did whatever it was she did. Rarely did anyone come over, unless it was a special friend of Jinx, and generally Mary ate out. Mary opened her eyes now, stretching.

Then she shot up, regretting the quick movement. This wasn't her house.

She couldn't have been abducted. Right? She tuned her hearing into the sounds around her. Humming. Someone was humming. Mary stifled a laugh. Marshall hummed?

Ever so carefully, in an attempt to not repeat a second wave of spinning, she stood and walked into his adjoining bathroom. This was weird. Three years, and she'd never been inside Marshall's house? She felt a pang of sadness at that. He always came to hers, helped her unpack hundreds of boxes when she'd bought her house, but he'd never invited her into his domain. Or, she thought with another twinge, she hadn't been listening if he had. She was a horrible friend. And horrible friend as she was, he was still building the damn bridges, he was making pancakes.

Cringing at her disheveled appearance, she grabbed his comb and ran it through her blonde hair, used his toothbrush, and washed her face. Taking a second glance at her rumpled work clothes—when was it she'd changed last?—and pulled a tee shirt and pair of shorts, turning the waistband over three times, from his neatly folded chest of drawers.

His bedroom, from the looks of it, was painted a shade of blue, with grey and blue plaid patterened sheets; the wall had handmade bookshelves nailed to it, lined with books ranging from Russian literary authors to various poets to the art of learning sign language and guidebooks of foreign countries. Philosophy, psychology, astrology (which threw her), astronomy, geometry—basically all of the '-onomy' and '–ology' sections were covered; medical text books (which gave her insight into his knowledge of how to keep himself alive after he'd been shot), pop culture, joke books, fiction, non-fiction—the man had an endless appetite for learning. Mary smiled.

"It's like Barnes & Noble threw up in here," she said quietly to herself, reaching her finger to trace the well used, cracked spine of _Pride & Prejudice_.

"Barnes & Noble has nothing on me," Marshall said from the doorway. Mary, startled, knocked _Pride & Prejudice_ from its post with a resounding thud, recoiling her hand.

"Sorry, didn't hear you," she mumbled, grabbing the book. He laughed.

"If you want it you can have it."

She knit her brows in confusion. "Have what?"

"_Pride & Prejudice_," he nodded to the book she clutched tightly to her stomach. "You can keep it. I've read it enough to have memorized it."

"Oh!" she laughed. "It's just…I never read it. I always wanted too, just, too busy taking care of Squish when Jinx was drunk to read it in high school." Her smile was tight, but he knew everything there was to know about her and her family anyway. She was surprised he never gave her the look of pity other people used to, the ones that had known her over the years. Pity the girl with the drunk of a mother, the wild sister, the gambler of a father that drove them into debt until the day he disappeared. She hated that look.

"Well, consider it yours." She smiled, but a happier smile now. "Now, you have to be starving. Stan told me to tell you not to come back until you decided to eat people food. You scared the hell out of the Robinson's, by the way," he paused. "And me."

She eyed him, ready to defy Stan's concern, good boss as he was, but her argument died in her throat at the last two words. "What…happened?" she asked curiously.

He went about his kitchen—wood cabinets and white countertops, not the strange modernist chrome she would have expected, which she found comforting—piling bits of this and that, and put two plates down on the small table. Chocolate chip pancakes. He'd make her chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream and powder sugar generously covering the top, a side of bacon and sunny-side eggs. The same amount rest on his plate as well—whether to encourage her to eat or that he actually ate that much, she didn't point it out.

"Well, after your tirade of anger and resentment, and once your bottle of green juice was gone, you went to get sodas for the Robinson's. I went to tell you their daughter couldn't have soda, and you were just…lying there," he finished, staring blankly at the wall behind her. "Your pulse was thready, and Stan told me to take you to the hospital. I brought you here. Wouldn't want you to wreak havoc on a few poor nurses when you woke up because you were a little bit stressed out. Besides, I knew you hadn't slept in a few days, and your crappy diet is making you edgy. And weak."

Mary grimaced. "I'm sorry, about the lashing out part. Things are…rough at the house right now. I haven't been back there since I told Brandi and Jinx to get out. Plus the Robinson's relocation, and paperwork from the last few cases, I just figured if I stayed up I'd get more done. Bad idea I guess. And thanks…for not taking me to the hospital."

He shook his head, shoving a few bites of the pancakes into his mouth. She did the same. They were delicious. "Just…don't tell Stan. I think I he figured I'd take you to your house. But Mary…seriously…" he caught her gaze. "You can stay here for a few days. If that's what you need. Your mom called your cell a few hours ago and I told her we were in the process of transporting witnesses. That covers at least two days."

"Are you sure?" she asked cautiously. Her easy agreement surprised him, but he didn't let it show.

"Positive. I told Stan I wasn't coming in tomorrow anyway," Marshall said like he'd already known her answer.

"Thank you."

They ate the rest of their dinner of breakfast food in comfortable silence. Something Mary never knew really existed.

Something, she thought oddly, she liked.

(The lyrics are "Safe As Houses" by The Weepies…and this is my first multi-chapter fic. Next installment…soon…)


	2. Defining Ambiguity

Bit of a disclaimer I guess: I get my best ideas or even just ideas at 3am…so I do apologize for bits and pieces of word usage as a few have pointed out; I'm typically good with grammar. In my usual excitement I tend to jump the gun and post my stories immediately and miss the misspellings here and there. Thanks for the heads up! I'm unsure how far/where I'm taking this story, but I'm just kind of running with the inspiration. I recently got a job, and don't get home until odd hours of the morning. I will finish this though. Authors that leave you hanging make me truly angry. So—I'm getting there!

_And it's a beautiful world  
Sun is shining so bright  
And it tilts through the late summer leaves  
But now there's a hole in the sky.  
God I wish I could believe in and pray  
When everything changes in a day._

Neither partner had ever lived with anyone, not including family. Mary's commitment level was nil—and she _hated_ sharing. Marshall claimed never having found the right person. Roommates were generally lousy mooches in both of their unspoken opinions; college ruined that for people, even the closest friends lashed out after sharing the glorified, standard issue prison cell for such an extended period of time. At least prison cells had a bathroom.

Marshall wanted to laugh at her pensive traveling gaze. Mary had, after the pancake dinner, taken it upon herself to tour Marshall's house. He racked his brain, and knew that she'd never actually been to his place. He had asked, she just never seemed to hear him. Or see him. Too much was always happening around them; witnesses in trouble, paperwork, her on-again-off-again loser boyfriend, her families crazy antics—especially her mother's new desire to be the lead prostitute in a musical, and Mary's general ability to get herself in trouble…often.

He sighed, continuing to wash dishes and coming up with something for them to do—Mary was quick to lose interest. Amusing her was like amusing a toddler. It only worked so long as they knew you weren't _trying_.

"I didn't know you liked jazz!" Mary called from down the hall. She was in his spare room, what he had turned into his all inclusive office and collectible's room. Records lined shelves much like his books, along with CDs and cassettes, odds and ends, a desk he'd received from his father after he'd been accepted into the Marshal Service. He had a guitar, a saxophone, and a violin stashed in the room's closet—no one knew he'd taught himself to play. No one had asked. Maybe his extensive obsession of hobbies and what he considered "light" reading (Chekov, medical journals), had driven him to be the lonely person he'd become. He had a friend. Mary was his best friend. But therein lay the problem: she was _only_ his friend. He tried to shake that dangerous line of what-if-and-could-be running rampantly through his thoughts.

"You didn't ask!" He yelled back childishly.

Mary snooped through drawers that weren't locked, thumbed through the records, picked up the small valuables he collected. It was all impeccably clean. She had expected that. No dust coated even the tiniest corners. So he was somewhat anal—she could live with that. She stopped.

Why would she think that? Why would she care? _Maybe because you're staying with him douchebag! _She berated herself for the unwelcome thought. Mary shook her head, scanning the certificates and diplomas and degrees that hung behind his desk. He was proud of his accomplishments, and he had a right to be. He came from a family with expectations; she came from a family of exceptions. They were two of a kind, and two very opposite souls.

And yet the world still spun. The sun came out.

And they were friends.

This was her favorite room, she decided, seating herself in the plush chair of the gorgeous cherry wood desk. Her fingertips grazed the absurdly shiny surface. Somehow she knew this was his true place. Everything in it represented him in some special way; her own house didn't represent her in the least. She'd bought it to have it…and it was infested with her ever intrusive family and crappy memories. Mary would never admit how jealous she was of Marshall's history, she thought, as she looked over all of the shiny, happy people in the photos that perched themselves invitingly at the edge of the desk. Generations, all of U.S. Marshal's.

It was a photo—small, in a simple silver frame, behind what must have been a massive family reunion—that caught her attention. She hated pictures of herself; they'd barely been able to get her to sit still long enough to focus the camera for her Marshal ID before she'd jumped up and left. They always seemed so fake, posed. Really, why did people need so many photos of themselves? Like they couldn't look in a mirror?

But this photo was different. It was from her "surprise" birthday party (another obnoxious tradition in her opinion) and for the life of her she couldn't remember what loser had brought a camera, but she remembered the flashes, never giving much credence to who it may be. She wasn't posed, she was smiling…actually smiling without an ounce of sarcasm, with her gaze catching that of someone out of the frame, beyond the picture taker, but she looked happy. She picked up the photo.

She wanted to know who he got it from.

Her fainting spell earlier in the office hadn't curbed her curiosity—and now she was feeling much more, well, herself—since she'd finally eaten something that didn't look like it belonged on the X-Files. She left the comfort of his spare room, heading to the kitchen where she'd left him.

"Hey, Marshall, I have a question for—"

Her downward gaze at the photo didn't prepare her for what she saw when she looked up. She froze, watching him from where she stood. He was…dancing? She remembered, vaguely, him mentioning mamba classes. Or was it tango? Or salsa? It didn't really matter; she'd probably tuned him out anyway. Her own assumption made her think for a moment; she'd thought it herself a million times. She'd tuned him out. She stared back down at the photo again. He'd never invited her to his place—she had to starve herself to get him to bring her over (well…not that that was intentional), she assumed he'd be wherever she wanted at the drop of a hat, when clearly she knew nothing about her partner. Her best friend. If the various knick-knacks and books and records were any indication. On some level he knew her completely…knew she hated pictures of herself, which in retrospect, meant he probably got the photo from her mother, or maybe even Brandi.

The music had stopped. Lost in thought she hadn't heard him stop the CD, or ask her a question of his own.

"Sorry…what?" she asked.

"I said, do you want to dance?" She scrunched her nose and raised an eyebrow.

"Not if you're going to make me dance like a flamingo," she stated airily.

"I think you mean _Flamenco._ And no, I just meant, you know…dance with me."

He shrugged carelessly, but she saw the expression on his face: hope.

"No, I meant flamingo. I've seen enough cartoons buddy, I remember _Fantasia_," Mary attempted with a mock skeptic tone. He held his hand out then, and met her eyes steadily. He wasn't backing down, and she wasn't one to avoid a challenge either. She placed the picture facedown on the table to her right; he didn't even notice. "Okay," she acquiesced and grasped his hand. He twirled her gently, surprising her at first. She couldn't remember the last time she'd danced…with anyone…for any reason.

"Those were ostriches," he said suddenly. She pulled away slightly, tilting her head to the side questioningly. "In _Fantasia_, the hippos were dancing with ostriches, not flamingos."

"Huh. Are you sure? What the hell movie had flamingos in it?" she asked aloud. "It was one of those cartoon movies…" she trailed, running through the possibilities. He smirked. He already knew which movie she was referring to. He didn't say a word, waiting it out. "Okay brainiac, what movie?" Mary resigned.

"_Alice in Wonderland_. And they weren't dancing, so much as running from the Queen of Hearts in the vain effort that she wouldn't use them as croquet mallets," he replied, amused.

"Dancing, running, same difference. Besides, I don't know if I'd be acting all…smart ass-like just because I corrected my friend on a Disney movie," she grumbled.

His hand, resting on the small of her back, began absently tracing delicate circles as they moved slowly to the music in his living room. He would never admit how cute she looked, swallowed in his old college tee shirt and shorts. She'd probably kick him for even thinking it. "Marshall…" she started.

"Yea?"

"Why have you never invited me over? I mean, I know that sounds a little…imposing…but, you've always been welcome at my place," she asked, feeling embarrassed and selfish to even have brought up what she was beginning to think was a touchy subject. The music had died away, and they weren't so much dancing now as they were simply standing, staring at each other, her hand in his. He opened his mouth, but didn't reply immediately.

"I didn't think you wanted…another place of ambiguity…I guess."

She looked more confused than ever. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means…I have asked before, numerous times. You never heard, or never answered, so after awhile I stopped asking," he replied, but his face was concealing a kind of hurt she'd never seen.

"You never struck me as the kind of guy that would give up that easily," she said, honest as she could be. She sighed. "Define ambiguity."

"To be vague, indistinct, uncertain…" he ticked off in his mind, sounding like…well…a dictionary.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Define ambiguity in your own terms Marshall. Or I will punch you."

"Right, and then I'll chase you around the playground and put gum in your hair. Why do you care Mary?" he said, a bitter edge laced in his words.

She narrowed her eyes, taken aback by the abrupt coolness in his tone. They were no longer dancing. No longer swaying. Just standing. Waiting to see which would cave first. And for once she didn't have an equally stinging response.

"I didn't want to bring you into another world you didn't understand. I didn't want to scare you away. You may be scary at times, but you are more easily scared than you think. And so am I. People do stupid things when they're scared, we know that…" he stared past her shoulder, contemplating how to phrase his definition.

"I was afraid that you wouldn't like what you saw."

There was one thing Mary knew in that moment.

They were not talking about his house anymore, but something he'd been holding onto for a very long time.

((I'm taking liberties with Marshall's "house," by the way. I noticed, we really haven't seen where he lives, which I think is kind of interesting…next chapter when it comes to me!!))


	3. Someone On Your Side

I love the reviews so far

I love the reviews so far! They have been extremely helpful and I look forward to them! (A/N: The lyrics following throughout the story are "Safe As Houses" by The Weepies…it's an inspiring song, and I highly recommend it) For my story's sake, I added that Jinx got the prostitute part in 'Sweet Charity.' And I didn't think to leave out that Mary's family wouldn't know what it was she did. I thought they knew and maybe didn't 'care' in some way or other. Again, sorry for any factual or TV show errors. I write when I can…

_Are you somewhere safe as houses  
Mother may I run and hide?  
Don't throw stones at other people_

_Hope your brother's on your side._

Mary didn't know how to feel. She had a small notion brewing in the back of her mind that her best friend was in love with her. Her head hurt. She went through their conversation over and over, staring up at the ceiling and knowing she could tell one distinctive emotion: guilt, sad and lonely and sickening guilt.

She'd done what she did best; not more than the blink of an eye later, she'd dropped his hand, said something to excuse herself, and hid. But hiding in someone else's house isn't as easy as it seems…especially, she thought grimly, since she was staying in his bedroom, in his clothes, and would eventually need to use his shower. And his toothbrush. Who only had _one_ toothbrush? She had at least twenty; dentists gave them out like freaking candy! No pun intended.

She rolled over, eyes resting on more family photographs. All of the photos always held the same people; some varied slightly, younger version, older version, recent, maybe ten years back, old house, new house, married, kids…Mary's picture was the only one out of place, she realized. Her blonde hair in the sea of dark brown in that small silver frame sat conspicuously out of place. She was the only person Marshall had a picture of that wasn't somehow directly related to him, either by blood or marriage. She'd meant what she said, he was her only friend. Witnesses she gradually bonded with over the years didn't count so much; they grew up, settled down, and got their own lives—in a matter of speaking anyway.

But Mary thought Marshall had been kidding when he'd agreed that she was his only friend as well. He was smart and well-versed, relatively normal until he started spouting out facts at random, or tried to explain _Back to the Future_ or _The Lake house_ and all of their time-travel-but-not-really-time-"travel" complexities, just to tease her mercilessly. And confuse her more.

Eps' angry remark in the interrogation room brought even more indecision to her blurry mind.

"_Male/female partners. Did you know that nine times out of ten, they end up screwing or killing each other? Or both!"_

He'd been spot on with at least half his assumption. Her irrational anger had gotten Marshall shot. Not dead…but damn near close enough. Maybe that was what had her scared. Her bulletproof armor—her best friend, the person who would probably hide a body for her without question—hadn't been able to protect her from the world.

And where would she be without him? That was a scary idea. He was always on her side, whether it was the right side, the honest side, or if she'd just done the stupidest thing in her life or career (letting her mother live with her, admittedly, he could have talked her out of) he was there, a constant.

And he never asked for anything in return.

She felt a coiling inside that made her feel the need to call someone; to ask for a comfort she'd rarely been given, or asked for. She knew she'd regret it in the morning, but it had to be done. She grabbed for her cell phone; three rings later a bright, chirpy bird-like voice answered the receiving end. "Mary! We were worried!"

Or she would regret it now.

"Mom."

"Oh, Honey, guess what? I got the part! I told you I wasn't too old!" She cried, ecstatically. "You have to help me practice! Marshall said you and he were working out of town, but when you get back we'll have a small party, okay?"

A party for the part of a prostitute in a musical. Mary couldn't help the small smile that pulled at her lips. "Yeah, mom, you've still got it," she replied softly.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" Jinx asked, truly concerned.

"Mom…I think I hurt Marshall," she whispered, staring up at the ceiling again.

"I don't understand Mary, how do you mean? Was it something you said? Because you know how you—"

"It was more like…something I _didn't_ say I guess," she answered quickly, cutting her off.

Jinx sighed. Her daughter was brilliant, hard headed, and quite stubborn, but she'd never known a good thing staring her in the eyes. Bad mother as she'd been, as Mary had even pointed out on more than one drunken occasion, she knew things the bright girl didn't. She'd seen how they acted around each other—so completely comfortable, equals, partners—and she could see how Marshall felt long before Mary had even noticed. Well, she assumed, until tonight her daughter probably had had no inkling of such a thing.

"I always liked Marshall, you know. He's a good person, a good man, and there aren't many of those left walking around Mary. I know you're upset with me right now, but take a little bit of my advice. Really look at him tomorrow, and ask yourself what you haven't let yourself see. Okay?"

For once, her mother made sense. Mary wondered idly if the apocalypse was near. "Okay," she answered.

"When you get home, I think you and your sister and I all need to talk. You've been jumping to a lot of conclusions lately Sweetie, and that may be part of your problem with us, and with Marshall. Just listen to him. Good night."

Jinx disconnected before her daughter had a chance to respond. Mary, for once, had no idea what was happening around her. Everything she thought she knew was falling apart and she suddenly felt how her witnesses must when they found out they had to leave and start over. And never see anyone else from their former life again. It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on. It also wasn't something she could wait for until morning.

Marshall was wide awake. The clocks glaring digital bars flipped slowly, deliberately mocking him, he thought. So this is what happened when you nearly admitted you were in love with your best friend? Time passed a little slower and you lost a little more sleep. That was perfect, just perfect.

What had possessed him to nearly admit it anyway? Because she danced with him? Because she was wearing his clothes? Because she was…just her? He'd been okay keeping her as a friend, keeping her that close all the time. Now he wouldn't even have that. He was a fool.

He stood, sick of the mocking clock, to get a glass of something containing alcohol. Maybe he could erase it from his memory. Doubtful.

He'd just finished pouring vodka into a glass, rooting around the freezer for some ice when he heard the wood floor creak behind him. The air was still and she barely made a sound, but he felt her presence all the same.

"Water?" she asked. He didn't turn around.

"Not unless it's vodka flavored—on the rocks."

"I'm sorry, about earlier."

He shook his head. "Mary, you're never sorry for anything."

She bit her lip, sad to hear his high opinion of her. He downed half the glass of vodka.

"Look, I'm not very good at this. Things haven't been going all that great lately. And I just lowered myself to resort to calling my mother for advice? Now I have to plan a party for her future role as a prostitute!"

Marshall looked into his glass of vodka, and hesitated, thinking he should be as relatively sober for this conversation as possible. He set it on the counter, and turned around. "You lost me at calling your mother," he said with a thin smile.

Her shoulders slumped, as if weight fell from them. "Well…I couldn't exactly call you to ask you advice about you…so I had to call…my mother." He raised an astoundingly surprised eyebrow at her admittance. "And don't think you're going to get out of planning a prostitute party for her either."

He laughed, but he was confused. Hadn't she understood what he'd meant? Instead of feeling awkward and nervous, he was irritated. Did she think he was kidding? That he'd forget the dance, that she'd just shrug it off and see it her way? He had to get through to her…a nearly impossible feat for just about anyone. Except him.

Mary had perched herself atop the kitchen counter, letting her feet dangle as if she were sitting at the edge of a pool. She held the picture of herself. "Marshall, how did you get this?" she asked.

He looked up. "It's just a picture Mary…wouldn't want you to read too much into it."

She gave him a sour look. "Cut the crap, who gave it to you? Or did you take it?"

"Brandi took the picture; she gave it to me because…"

"Because what? Marshall, seriously, _I_ don't even own a picture of myself! And what is it Brandi's business taking pictures of me?" She was nearly as frustrated as he was.

"I didn't ask her for it! She just gave it to me. She said she'd never seen you that happy…at least, not in a long time," he finished.

"It was my birthday. I despise my birthday—especially surprise birthday parties. Who wants to celebrate the fact that you're one year closer to dead? And she thought I was happy? How did she come up with that?"

"Do you really want to know Mary?" Marshall asked.

She wanted to say no. She wanted to go back and pretend they hadn't started this conversation, or the conversations they'd had all day, as a matter of fact. But days and moments and words could not be taken back. The past was just that.

"Yea, I really want to know," she whispered, running her thumb over the thin glass pane of the frame and swinging her feet, allowing them to gently tap the cupboards below.

"Brandi said it was because you were looking at me."

Suddenly, Mary wished she'd never stepped foot in this house.


	4. The Space Between

Sorry for the delay

Sorry for the delay! When life intervenes…work, people, work, etc. So here is the next chapter! Thank you for all of the encouraging reviews and advice—it's a trip sometimes, trying to think up the words. But I'm trying. (A/N: The Weepies, "Safe As Houses" lyrics)

_Feeling sick, stay home inside  
See the T.V. news, and the New York skyline.  
I want to make you a sheltering sound  
But right side's wrong, and upside's down _

Mary's feet stilled. His words echoed in the small kitchen, bouncing off the pots and pans in the drying rack, the glass of vodka that rested half full on the counter, down to the delicate floorboards where he stood. It reverberated in her mind, taunting everything she thought she knew about him. Or didn't know, she guessed.

She felt frozen. Happy was a hard place to find. _Fine _was hard enough. That was yet another lame expression. _How are you?_ Why did people have to ask that? If you looked like hell, the kind of hell that made you ruin your brand new boots, the ones you buy once every six months, the kind of bad that makes you dye your hair a hideous shade, or stop sleeping and wind up passing out in front of a vending machine, why ask? Obviously, you're not relatively fine. But that was how she and the rest of humankind always answered, _I'm fine._

Mary wasn't _fine_, in any sense of the word. If she was mad at Brandi before, now she was furious. She had no right to give out pictures of her, especially considering her nearly blown cover at the stupid funeral because the dead cop's psycho partner went all _Mean Girls _on her. Suddenly, she felt very, very exposed.

"Mary," Marshall coaxed. Her gaze rested, unblinking, on the photo still. She didn't hear him, or was pretending she was anywhere else in the universe but sitting in his kitchen. He decided to continue, whether she wanted to hear it or not.

"Mary, you know that, first, and above all else, you're my best friend, and I shouldn't have to tell you that. The difference between us, what I should have said months ago, knowing I could have died, was that I wanted so much _more_ with you. I didn't want to lose you; I don't want to lose you. Losing you because I want more, that would kill me."

He'd kept his distance. He'd left space between them. For years, for seconds. Now the mere ten inches that separated the pair seemed oceans away and fathoms deep, and yet close enough to swim to shore. She was still, though. She wasn't treading water; and as the moments passed, he felt like more than his heart was sinking.

He wanted to cross the few inches, but he didn't want to push her away. She was skittish and untrusting and he knew why. It hurt that she didn't know, didn't realize that he was different. He slightly stepped closer, realizing he was afraid to be in his own home at that moment.

She was a fighter, literally, figuratively—she could hurt him a million ways in one. Eyes still focused on the photo, staring down at her honest, smiling, _happy_ face, she wondered if it could work. She destroyed everything personal, and she'd decided to keep Marshall at a distance so she _could_ keep him. It was logical, and completely backwards and upside down and wrong.

His bare feet came into her unfocused stare, knowing how close he must be. Instinct and intrusion of personal space made her pull her eyes off of the picture, and left her caught up in the expression she'd seen when he'd asked her to dance earlier. That hope was startling. Hope that she would want him back.

Her voice was trapped; hostage in her own throat and the tangled words spinning around her head did not try to rescue her either. Her fight or flight response failed miserably.

She felt him push the errant strands of blonde bed hair behind her ears. She could stop him. She could hit him. She could yell and scream and kick. She could, but she was still frozen—stuck in the moment. She was cornered.

His other hand rested loosely on the curve of her waist. His response seemed heavily weighted towards flight if she did decide to snap, he mused idly. He wanted her to meet him halfway on this, but she had become a mute since he'd spoken. Two inches, Marshall thought. Two inches to find out for the rest of his life if he'd made the biggest mistake.

Two inches he closed in a blink of her eyes.

The hand behind her ear moved to the back of her neck, pulling her in, bringing her as close as possible as he kissed her, slowly, waiting for some kind of pain. It was a long minute for her to respond…the frame of her shining happy smile falling from the hands that had been white-knuckling the photo for dear life…hearing distantly the shatter of the expensive glass cover.

Her own hands floated unbidden to his chest, winding them limply around his neck, as his hand around her waist crushed her to him in the moment. She didn't think, and he wasn't either.

They were a mess of hands and hair and unknown emotion and kissing, he still standing, she still sitting on his kitchen counter. His lips had grazed across her cheek, from her jawline, down to her neck. Mary breathed in sharply at the contact, lost to the feeling of it all.

Bits of forgotten thoughts came together. Where and how far would they take this? Would she regret it in the morning? Would he? She was at an impasse; if she pulled back now, she'd lose him for good, but if she let it go, she'd be the one to ruin it. Either way, it was and would be her fault. She was a damned soul, and he was just an innocent bystander.

His eyes met hers then, feeling her tense suddenly, waking up to what was happening. Fear and sadness rolled over in her hazy, brown eyed gaze. He didn't want to let go, hands hovering like before. She shook her head, biting her swollen lips.

"Marshall…just…take it back," she whispered, feeling sick as she did. She couldn't look at him now, seeing the defeat that settled harshly over his face, his entire body. He backed away, flinching as he stepped on a piece of the broken frame. The sharp glass snapped him awake, from the dreamy state they'd been in. "Marshall, here let me—" She started to say, readying herself to slide off the counter and grab a towel for his foot. But he shook his head.

"I'm fine," he said. The crappy saying ringing in her mind wasn't what halted her movement, but his tone, disconnected, impartial, _ambiguous._ She stopped, watching as he walked away from her, hurt and helpless. They wouldn't be the same after this, no matter how much they smiled through the denial.

And she was left breathing stiffly, thinking of all the ways they'd kill themselves over it for the rest of their friendship.

Whatever, she thought, was left of it.

_It's quiet in the streets now  
It's screaming in your head  
We're passing the time  
We're breaking apart  
We're damned at the end  
We're damned at the start  
Blame it on the roses  
Blame it on the red  
Running out of time  
Running out of breath  
Saying hey now you're bleeding for nothing  
It's hard to breathe when you're standing on your own  
We'll kill ourself to find freedom  
You'll kill yourself to find anything_

(A/N: End lyrics, "Hey Now" by Augustana…I know, I know, but I couldn't resist because I thought they were cohesive with my idea.)


	5. Love, Fear, And Apology

And all the games we played as children

_And all the games we played as children  
To fight against the dark  
Red, Red Rover, four-leafed clover  
Ashes, ashes all fall down, all fall down  
All fall down…_

He felt humiliated, hurt, and wrong. They were the only prominent emotions he could grab onto at the present time. The glass stung his foot, piercing into the flesh like the knife he felt Mary had stuck in his back. He'd always been overly ambitious, but never had he thought his ambition, his drive, would be his downfall. He shouldn't have pushed her, shouldn't have cared, and shouldn't have loved her. Because now he'd lost her. And once lost, he knew he'd never find Mary again.

He sat on the edge of the tub of the adjoining bathroom, wincing as he pried the sliver of glass out of his foot, mesmerized as blood oozed from the wound. He probably deserved it.

Mary didn't like grand gestures; didn't like being proposed to with a diamond ring covered with sticky icing lodged in a cupcake, or coaxed to a fancy restaurant on the pretense that a waiter had brought out two dinners by accident. And he wasn't one to do such things either; grand gestures were for those that didn't feel worthy enough to be themselves in such a situation.

He submerged his foot into the cool running water, watching the blood swirl down the drain. How had it all gone to hell so fast? All was not fair in love and war.

Mary delicately picked up the scattered glass pieces from the floor, every so often feeling the rough edged angles bite at her shaking hands. She deserved it. She was a horrible tease. Marshall didn't have to say it; she'd seen it in his confusion.

Her body said yes, while her head had told him no. Her heart had taken the sidelines, and now it sat on a barbed wire fence between the two answers.

Say yes, and be separated, be awkward in the office, be too afraid of ruining anything you had before, be alone.

Say no, and forget him as a friend, as a confidant, as a lover…and be alone.

She knew it was how she always ended up anyway. Her boyfriend had taken up with his therapist and now with her troublesome little sister. All because she wasn't there. Emotionally, physically, literally…and why? Because she valued her job more. Because she didn't trust herself with anyone. No one could have that part of her heart. Alone with her thoughts—and with what was currently occupying them, she was simply alone.

She'd remembered one of Marshall's casual observations, when she'd forgotten Raph's physical therapy appointment. _You must be __**such**__ a good girlfriend._

She'd brought it all upon herself. She'd asked—no, _pleaded_—with Brandi to take Raph to therapy. How was it Brandi's fault she'd fallen for Raph? It was an opportunity Mary had eagerly bestowed upon her sister. But why would Marshall, even knowing how attentive she wasn't to her boyfriend, or even he himself, want her? The most self destructive person in the world?

Now that was a question she knew she needed an answer to. Now. She dropped the pieces of glass she'd collected, standing instead to find him.

The water in the bathroom was running, so she entered through his bedroom. He'd have to come out eventually. Maybe. Then again, his house. He could sleep in the bathtub if he wanted. She paced absently in front of the door, trying to form her question as non-committal as possible. Perfect words were hard to find though.

Mary paced on.

He didn't want to shut off the water. Didn't want to leave the small, safe confines of the bathroom. He didn't want to see her. He never should have brought her into his space. It was better when she remained oblivious to how he felt, better when he was on his own, better her being his friend. He hadn't heard her leave, no slamming of the doors, no yelling, and he knew she wouldn't leave…well…quietly.

Finally he turned the knob of the faucet. No more blood seeped from his injury, and his water bill would be obnoxiously high if he continued his rebellious tirade. He pulled a band aid from the box on his sink; carefully making his way to the sink to splash more water on his face.

He'd failed. Maybe that was what hurt the most.

_If you love something, set it free…_

Damn that expression too. Whoever had said that load of bull had never had to set anything free—especially a wild animal like his partner. And wild animals rarely, if ever, came back once let go. He'd lost more than he had ever thought he would.

He opened the door connecting the bathroom to the bedroom, surprised to find the object of his thoughts standing resolutely in front of him. He was confused, to say the least.

"Well, I figured you hadn't left," he said flatly. She tilted her head to the side in question—a signature move of hers that he typically found alluring. "Nothing is broken and the doors are still intact."

She looked at the floor. That was fair. She sighed, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "I come in peace," she mumbled timidly.

His eyes narrowed, then widened in astonishment. "Mary…what?" He grabbed her hands in his, flipping them palms up and forcing her closer. She flinched. She'd forgotten the numbness in her hands from the glass shards. The small slashes looked like clusters of mad, deep paper cuts. And they were still bleeding.

"It's nothing. I tried to clean up the frame," she said quietly, trying to pull them back. He wouldn't let her, instead tightening his grip, gently, not painfully, and pulled her back into the bathroom.

She stared at his profile. His concern outweighed his present anger, and she smiled to herself at that revelation.

Marshall went about finding Neosporin and a few band aids while she stood idly watching.

Why didn't she want this? This caring man, who dealt with her crap and her names and her horrible teasing nature on a daily basis? He was too good for her. He knew how to push her buttons, knew how to calm her down and when to back off, put her back on her feet, keep her from throwing herself off a cliff when her family as particularly irritating, keep her from the brink of insanity, all while he quietly loved her. Was that what was stopping her? That he would realize his mistake, and leave her alone, like her father had left her mother?

All she did was take and all he did was give. And that had to stop. She had to give something of herself for once. She had to see.

He put her hands under the tap water, gently running his thumbs over her wrists. He was concentrated on her palms, startled when she stilled his hand with one of hers. Marshall glanced over.

"You're too good for me," she stated abruptly. "And I don't want you to regret me, later, knowing you could have had someone better. Someone who actually understands _Back to the Future_ and likes Russian Literature and doesn't have to steal _Pride & Prejudice _from you. Someone that won't tease you mercilessly and has to be in control all the time and wants all of those mushy, crappy, pseudo romantic grand gestures. Because I can't change who I am."

The water was long forgotten, as was the Neosporin and the band aids. She swallowed thickly, trying not to look away as she continued.

"Is it too late to apologize? Is it too late to take it back?" Mary got out, as her voice cracked. She didn't want to cry.

He faced her, placing his damp hands on her upper arms. He pulled her in, trying to comfort his friend, first and foremost.

"Depends on what you want to really take back," Marshall whispered into her ear. She gave a choked laugh.

"Mary, I love you just the way you are."

She tensed again, at the odd admittance that she knew, but that had never been spoken aloud. But he wouldn't let her go this time.

So, like her mother had told her, she listened. Really listened.

"I get that you're scared that this will change us, and that being with someone in the forever kind of way will change you. But I don't think anyone could do that, and anyone who tries is missing out on something that isn't broken in the first place."

She smiled almost shyly, feeling unnaturally self conscious at his words and under his penetrating gaze.

"And who says you're not good enough? Who makes that call? No one ever thinks they'll measure up to someone else's expectations, but that hasn't stopped anyone," he queried. "And if you understood everything—like _Back to the Future_—what use would I be? I wouldn't have anyone to ignore my attempts at the explanation of time travel…and I wouldn't have a reason to tell you all of the useless information I've collected."

She gave a quick of a half smile. "Yeah, heaven forbid, all of that information rolling around up their and no one to tell may cause your head to explode," Mary replied. She sighed heavily. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Me too. I shouldn't have just…sprang all of that on you."

She shook her head. "No, I think you needed to. I think it had to be done, when I couldn't run away," she said thoughtfully, then chose her next words ever so carefully. "I don't know if I can say it yet. But I want too, and I feel it, and I will. Someday. There are a lot of reasons I can't right now…it's there, though. All I can do is try Marshall."

He nodded. "You wouldn't be you otherwise Mary."

"Marshall?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm in like with you," she whispered cheekily. He grinned at the schoolgirl expression.

"That's a pretty good start," he whispered back, half-serious. Her own witty smile faded, leaning into him. Her lips hovered a breath apart from his. "You know, I'm going to need my clothes back."

His voice was joking; his eyes were screaming something far different. Darker blue and clouded with emotion.

She kissed him, chastely, quickly, before pulling back, and then kissing him again. She was teasing him, he knew—a different, unspoken teasing. When she tried to pull back again, he held her face to his in retaliation. He could play her game. He'd been playing for years. His arms held her solidly, and she gave in.

She gave into his non-grand gesture, gave into his caring words, his idea of loving her imperfections. Fear was what they grappled with everyday, and she was sick of it taking over her life and making her decisions for her. She gave in, and kissed him with her whole heart.

They stood in the doorway to his room, taking each other in, exploring their newfound territory. He'd kissed his way down her neck again, and she shivered, his hand pressed flatly on her back, under his borrowed shirt.

She placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. He looked at her questioningly, suddenly afraid again. She gave another cheeky smile.

"If you want them, you'll have to take them."

He laughed, startled and fascinated by her at the same time. "So that's how it's going to be?"

"That's how it's going to be," she repeated, dropping the hand that separated them and holding her arms up. He pushed his shirt off of her slowly, then pulled her back in…this time not letting go.

She'd never felt as safe as she did in that moment, with him, in his house.

In his _home_.

The End & The Beginning

Thank you for keeping my story in mind! I'm working on another idea already, especially after seeing the previews for next Sunday. Keep watching for more in a few days!


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